


Verbal Expression of Emotions is for the Weak

by SummerSnow888



Series: Warren Worthington III is as good at flirting as he is at helping bring about the apocalypse [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, He is just walking filth, M/M, Romance, Warren also doesn't know the meaning of subtlety, Warren has never learned how to use his words, Warren is also the worst sinnamon roll ever, Warren is honestly very lucky he's pretty, Warren will never learn the meaning of subtlety, characters to be added as i go along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7227355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerSnow888/pseuds/SummerSnow888
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other 25% of Warren's attempts at seduction are 15% pigtail-pulling and 10% carefully-engineered situations designed to maximize "accidental" physical contact.  But there's still a lot of showboating.  There will ALWAYS be a lot of showboating.  Warren is actually just a giant living, breathing, flying showboat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which we are still exploring the showboating portion of Warren's wooing strategy

Warren Worthington III was not a man easily deterred.  The incident with the bay window at sunset was unfortunate, truly, but it was easy to see how Kurt could have mistaken his strategic posing as mere sunset-admiration.  No matter.  Warren could fix this easily enough.  After all, the Xavier mansion was blessed with a truly shocking amount of scenic balconies and garden pathways.  All he needed to do was to pick a few that were the most visible and the rest would work itself out.  Again, this was a foolproof plan.  Nothing could go wrong.  Nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

“What’s Worthington doing?” Scott whispered to Jean.  The two of them had been talking under Jean’s favorite tree when Scott noticed the mutant in question leaning in a faux-casual fashion against the balustrade lining the gravel walkway.  His white t-shirt was stretched just a _little_ too tightly across his chest, the broadness of which was accentuated by his crossed arms.  His biceps were nearly straining against the fabric of his sleeves.  His wings were held aloft for reasons as of yet unknown, unfolded in their full glory against the afternoon sun.  

 

Privately, Scott thought Worthington looked like a douchebag.  But what did he know.

 

Jean barely looked up from the sandwich she’d brought with her.  Bananas and Nutella.  Disgustingly unhealthy.   _Her favorite_.  “He’s trying to impress Kurt,” she replied through a mouthful of potassium-rich chocolatey heaven.

 

Scott almost fell backwards in shock.  “He’s _what?!?_ I thought he _hated_ Kurt.  Are you sure?”

 

Jean snorted.  “He’s thinking it so loudly, it’d be impossible to _not_ be sure.  ‘ _God, I hope Kurt walks by soon, I hope he notices me, he can’t_ not _notice me, look at me, look at my wings, I look amazing, fuck my back is sore but it’ll all be worth it when Kurt finally falls in love with me,_ ’.”  Jean repeated Worthington’s thoughts out loud in a flat, faux-deep voice.  “He’s like ridiculously in love with Kurt, it’d be cute if it wasn’t so sad.”

 

Scott needed a moment to process all this.  He needed several moments.  He probably needed like an hour’s worth of moments because _what_ the _fuck_.  Worthington?  Surly, traitorous, borderline-alcoholic Worthington?  Had a crush on Kurt?  The purest, kindest soul to walk the earth?   _Their_ Kurt?  That wasn’t possible.  That was like...that was like if Magneto was somehow Peter’s dad, it was _that_ unlikely and weird.

 

“But are you sure, Jean?  Are you totally sure?  Are you like 100% sure.   _Would you swear on that horrifying sugary concoction that you call a sandwich that you’re sure_.”

 

Jean rolled her eyes.  “Do you want me to say what he’s thinking out loud again?”

 

Scott nodded rapidly.

 

“Okay, here we go.  Ahem.  ‘ _Kurt’s so hot, I’m the only one at this school that’s hot enough for him, he’s just_ so hot _, please notice me, Kurt.  He_ has  _to see how worthy I am of him, I’d do_ anything _for him, he’s so beautiful, his eyes are like the sky right before the sun sinks, and I want to trace over all of his scars and run my hands over his skin, his skin looks so soft, like twilight velvet, and oh_ god _, I just wanna kiss him so bad, his lips look so soft, and I can’t wait for him to finally fall into my arms so I can see those lips wrapped around my_ -”

 

Jean’s eyes widened in horror as she cut herself short and adopted a perfect thousand-yard stare.  Scott suddenly became very interested in the frisbee game happening across the lawn.  Oh, look.  There appeared to be an argument.  The kid who could stretch his limbs used his powers during the game.  This was apparently cheating.  Was using your mutation at a _school for mutants_ actually cheating?  This was the kind of deep philosophical question he’d ask the Professor later.  Maybe his long, enthused, rambling discourse on the intricacies of the fairness of mutation-usage on the playground would somehow send Scott into a deep-enough stupor to erase the knowledge that Warren wanted...wanted...wanted to do _t_ _hat_...to Kurt.  

 

Jean, on the other hand, was beginning to understand the professor’s former alcohol problem.

 

“ _I can’t block them out, Scott_ ,” Jean whispered brokenly.

 

“What? You can’t block what out?” Scott asked, immediately concerned.

 

“ _Warren’s thoughts_ .  He keeps thinking about...about...oh _god, Scott, make it stop_.”  Jean clutched her temples and curled up, unable and unwilling to handle the amount of filth that Worthington was so obliviously projecting.

 

“Come on, Jean.”  Scott hurriedly took Jean’s hand and led her away.  “Let’s um.  Let’s go find Ororo, see if she can teach us some new recipe from home.”  Scott hated cooking, normally, but he was willing to do literally _anything else_ besides think about Worthington’s apparent depravity.

 

Someone should warn Kurt, Scott thought vaguely, before another disgusted groan from Jean made him walk even faster.

 

* * *

 

Kurt noticed Warren.  Kurt noticed Warren plenty.  It was hard not to.  Warren was _gorgeous_.  His face must have been made in the image of actual angels, it was so beautiful.  You could see the whole world spun into his eyes, earthy hazel at the heart of stormy oceans.  And his _wings_.  Kurt couldn’t get over Warren’s wings, hadn’t been able to ever since he’d first seen them in the cage, splattered with blood as they were.  Warren’s wings would have sent artists into fits as they rushed to paint their awe-inspiring span across cathedral ceilings and immortalize their deadly splendour in stained glass.  And now that they had grown back as God made them, Kurt wasted no time in appreciating the alabaster glory of Warren’s feathers.  They always seemed to _glow_ when struck by sunlight, and there was no shortage of opportunities to appreciate the feathers being struck by sunlight now that Warren had recently taken up the very strange practice of posing ridiculously at any given location on the grounds and in the mansion.

 

So far, Kurt had caught Warren in poses including, but not limited to: slouching in the breakfast nook as his wings sprawled across the entire bench, resting against the kitchen counter as the early-morning sunshine dusted his wings in soft gold, _lingering outside the boys’ bathroom, wings still inexplicably unfolded._

 

And, on one shocking, heart-stopping occasion, approximately three weeks into Warren’s new hobby,  he was found draped decadently on a chaise longue in the second floor music room where Kurt had gone to seek some peace and quiet, one wing outstretched vertically against the backrest, the other one splayed out across the ground.  It looked patently uncomfortable, so Kurt knew not why Warren would willingly rest in such a fashion, and he had ostensibly been reading, as evidenced by the book loosely clutched in one hand, but Kurt did not know why one had to be _shirtless_ to read.  Surely this was not a strange American custom, as Scott did not read shirtless, when he bothered to read at all.  The good doctor read often, and clothed, and the professor was certainly _never_ seen shirtless.  No, it must have been a strange Warren custom.  In any case, Kurt stammered his apologies and promptly vanished.

 

Kurt did not at all let his eyes linger on Warren’s muscular chest as he backpedaled towards the door, so shocked ( _enthralled_ ) by such a shameless ( _breathtaking_ ) display that he forgot to teleport.  He did not let his eyes rake over Warren’s spectacular abdominals either, nor did he at all briefly fantasize what it would be like to be held in ( _down by???_ ) those arms, so _powerful_ and _strong,_ and-

 

What was the point of denying it.  Kurt knew he did.  God knew he did.  But could God really fault him when Warren was clearly sculpted by God himself as a test to the whole of mankind?  He was sure that better men and women would have fallen to Warren’s majesty.  The Lord had tested him, and he had failed, but could anyone else claim to be able to do better?

 

Even worse, shortly after the music room incident, Warren appeared to develop a newfound love for shirtless exhibitionism, which, to each man his own, but _why did the Lord test Kurt so_ , why did the Lord seek to punish Kurt with the sight of Warren’s torso cast into sharp relief as he lounged on a lawn chair in the West Garden veranda, clad only in a pair of low-slung jeans, the jut of his hip bones peeking sinfully over the waistband?   _What had he done to deserve this cruelty_ (absolute blessing) _?_

 

On all other occasions, however, Warren’s poses were all...amazingly stupid.  Beautiful, but stupid.  And somewhat awkward, if Kurt was being honest, because surely Warren had no idea how absurd he looked leaning against that balustrade this morning, or how absurd he looked pretty much every time he was leaning against _something_ with his wings opened (for _perpetually unfathomable reasons_ ), and it always seemed that the polite thing to do whenever Kurt encountered Warren when he was posed thusly was to pretend as though nothing was out of the ordinary and carry on as per usual, no matter how ludicrously attractive Warren _still_ managed to look, even when leaning purposelessly against the newel post in the main foyer, gazing soulfully into the middle distance.

  
Yes, that was the only thing that could be done.  Politely ignore Warren.  That was it.  And pray.


	2. In which we establish that Warren doesn't know the meaning of personal space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or subtlety. He doesn't know the meaning of subtlety either.

It wasn’t working. Warren had been showcasing his many desirable physical attributes for nearly a month now and it _wasn’t working_. How was this even possible? Had Kurt _seen_ Warren recently?

It was actually entirely possible that Kurt _hadn’t_ seen him recently, now that Warren thought about it. Indeed, Kurt always seemed to be actively avoiding eye contact whenever he walked by him. Why would Kurt actively avoid eye contact with him? Why would _anyone_ actively avoid eye contact with him? He was a gift. A _gift_. And _yet_.

The other day, however, Kurt had walked in on Warren lounging in the music room, and it pleased Warren to witness the faint smatterings of a blush spreading across Kurt’s cheeks, the panicked stammering, and the clumsy, stumbling escape attempt. Furthermore, it did _not_ escape Warren’s notice that Kurt was not-at-all subtly raking his eyes over the perfect specimen of a human being laid out before him.

Kurt’s attention, no matter how brief, was totally worth the excruciating pain in his shoulders that he suffered for _days on end_ as a result of holding his wings in such a ridiculous position for the two hours it took for Kurt to coincidentally wander into the second floor music room.

(“It was _coincidence_ ,” Warren would insist, even years down the line. “ _Pure coincidence_.” No one needed to know that he had been meticulously tracking Kurt’s activities for _weeks_. No, not stalking. _Tracking_.)

Subsequently, it was only natural that Warren should come to this conclusion: Walk around shirtless more often. All the time, if possible. At all hours of the day. In all locations.

 

* * *

 

Going shirtless had its flaws. Upstate New York was fucking _cold_ , even in early April, when the watery afternoon sun was _absolute_ _shit_ at warming the good inhabitants of Westchester County. The mansion itself was little better, with its drafty hallways and lack of heating or air conditioning. The mansion’s stone walls meant that most of the heat was kept outside during the summer, which was nice during the summer and all, but it also meant that _most of the heat was kept outside during the winter, too_. How on God’s good Earth was Warren supposed to seduce Kurt if he was too busy trying not to shiver?

Another flaw was the fact that the adults kept telling him to “ _put your shirt on, Warren_ ,” which, not cool, because how was he supposed to seduce Kurt when he was too busy getting sent back to his room to put on a fucking shirt? There was nothing less seductive than the sight of a grown man literally being told to go to his room. And _yes_ , Professor, he _was_ a grown man. He was _nineteen years old_ , thank you very much. A legal adult.

“That may be so, Warren,” the professor had said, “but while you’re living under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules. And one of my rules is that shirtlessness is reserved strictly to the pool area, various recreational athletic activities, and training sessions.”

But _Raven_ got to walk around shirtless _whenever the fuck she wanted_.

At that, the professor had raised an eyebrow as if to ask, “ _Are you_ really _trying to compare your shameless hormone-fueled exhibitionism to Raven’s freedom to express her mutation as she so desires?_ ”

Which like, _point_ , but _still_.

In any case, Warren was forced to come up with alternate seduction techniques.

 

* * *

 

 Kurt, frankly, was quite grateful that the professor had had a talk with Warren about gratuitous shirtlessness, because life in the Xavier mansion was becoming increasingly difficult. How, pray tell, was Kurt supposed to focus on the admittedly-less-than-enthralling works of Nietzsche and Kant when Warren would casually stroll in mid-lecture, _torso shamelessly on display for the world to see_.

As Warren would never admit to stalking Kurt, so would Kurt never admit to being very, _very_ grateful for being part of the world for which Warren chose to display his torso.

The point remained. Warren always made a point of commandeering the seat right in front of Kurt by looming over the poor student who happened to be sitting there until they beat a hasty escape, thus allowing Warren to drop into the seat with a definite air of _je ne sais quoi_. There, he would sit in a variety of positions that allowed the early afternoon sun to define the flex and tension of his back and to cast a soft, near-shimmering glow onto his feathers, really, could anyone blame Kurt for not paying attention to the byzantine works of dead German philosophers when the physical embodiment and unholy union of beauty and sin was so enticingly and cruelly laid out before him?

Fortunately for Kurt and his studies, the professor had apparently had words with Warren, as it had been two weeks since the latter had been seen sauntering around in iniquitous glory. It saved Kurt a lot of angst, as he no longer had to dedicate a good portion of his day to saying Hail Marys and writing down his confessions in a series of letters that he planned on mailing to a priest as soon as he found a priest that was willing to do confessions through correspondence.

He should really ask the professor if there were any mutant-accepting priests or churches in the near vicinity.

 

* * *

 

Just this morning, though, an unsettling incident had Kurt wondering if he’d begun counting his blessings too soon.

He was in the kitchen, preparing his usual breakfast of Smurf Berry Crunch with a healthy serving of strawberry Rice Krispies stirred in. American food was incontrovertible proof that there was a God, and He was good, for how else could one explain the existence of sugar-laden breakfast foods, _some of which came in his skin color_. He was truly blessed indeed, to be living in a country where he could break his fast in the form of a food that combined his favorite color with his favorite flavor. And yes, sugar was absolutely a flavor.

( _Your eating habits put you at an increased risk for contracting Type 2 diabetes_ , warned the good doctor. _Sugar, my dear, is not an essential food group,_ gently chided the professor. _I am judging you because I care but am too emotionally constipated to say so_ , seemingly projected Herr Lehnsherr as he raised a judgmental eyebrow. _You should try eating that with chocolate milk_ , suggested Peter.

Three guesses as to who he listened to.)

But back to the point, the point being that Kurt was so very innocently making breakfast, _minding his own business_ , disturbing _no one_ , and was just about to set down his bowl when _out of nowhere_ , there was Warren, leaning against the door frame like a veritable Delilah to his Samson. Kurt yelped in surprise and spilled his cereal all over the island, _Gott verdammt._ He was just about to find a dishcloth to sop up the mess when Warren spoke up.

“Oh, hey Kurt. Sorry about that. I’ll get it.”

What? Why was Warren apologizing? Warren _never_ apologized for anything, not for tripping Scott last week, not for being late to class always, not for trying to help bring about the end of days. So why now? _And why, for the love of God and all that was holy, was he taking off his shirt again?_

Because there stood Warren, slowly stripping off his shirt, and Kurt swallowed very hard as he tried to not stare at the bulge of Warren’s triceps flexing alongside the defined cords of his biceps as he lifted his arms over his head, the deep valley of Warren’s sternum between the hard, broad planes of his chest, the sculpted ridges of his abdominals (over which a dark, deeply-suppressed part of Kurt strongly wished to run his hands over), the _godforsaken hip bones that were once again jutting out over his jeans, God be good, did the man not own higher-fitting pants?_

Warren toyed with the removed shirt with a practiced sort of nonchalance that set the ends of Kurt’s nerves on edge as he walked closer and closer with a definite swagger in his stride that Kurt found... _inexplicably attractive??_ Warren then quirked his lips up in what Kurt would have called a smirk, were he not so busy being vaguely mesmerized by the full softness of Warren’s lips, which were accentuated by the aforementioned smirk.

Kurt would maintain in the weeks to come that Warren was unto Salome, truly, enchanting and seductive in equal measure, for how could he explain the fact that, Warren was walking _towards_ him one moment and _suddenly standing right behind him in the next?_ Without Kurt noticing the change in position? Because Warren was standing right behind Kurt, without Kurt quite understanding how he got to be there, and he was frustratingly, _tantalizingly_ close, close enough for Kurt to feel Warren’s breath fall upon his neck in soft, gentle puffs as Warren _bracketed Kurt against the island counter with his arms_ , using his shirt as a dishcloth to mop up the spilled milk. Then Warren reached for the far side of the counter and -

Kurt choked out the tiniest half-gasp as Warren suddenly pressed into his back. He could feel the warmth of Warren’s chest - which was indeed every bit as solid and firm as Kurt had not imagined - seeping through his school sweatshirt. But even more horrifyingly, Kurt could feel Warren’s...Warren’s... _that place_...flush against his...his...his _there_ , and Kurt could not help but feel how perfectly Warren seemed to just _fit_ , from the way his chin could rest on Kurt’s shoulder, to the way his breadth made him able to practically _envelope_ Kurt’s frame, to the way his hips seemed to line up just right with Kurt’s, his thrice-damned hip bones fitting snugly against either side of Kurt’s -

In that moment, Kurt could have wept with confused, guilty arousal.

After what seemed like eons and seconds at the same time, Warren stepped back (and Kurt did not at all internally lament the loss of physical contact), lobbed his shirt into the trash can, and strolled out of the kitchen like nothing happened, leaving a poor, bewildered Kurt to wrestle with his conflicting thoughts of _what was that?_ and _forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_ , and _no, come back, that ended way too quickly_ , and _but seriously, what was that???_

Kurt Wagner was not at all easily given to hate, but that morning, he would've hated Warren Worthington III, if only he could figure what it was he felt for Warren in the first place.

 

* * *

 

The incident was, unfortunately, not an isolated one. Warren was forever crowding Kurt whenever an opportunity presented itself. He would lean over Kurt as Kurt read, one arm propped up against the back of the chair and one against the edge of the table. He would say nothing, and when Kurt asked Warren if anything was wrong, he'd simply shrug, grunt noncommittally, and continue hovering somewhat obnoxiously.

He'd walk as close to Kurt as possible when they passed in the hallways or down the stairs, forcing Kurt to practically hug the walls as Warren nearly bumped into him, his feathers brushing against Kurt’s shoulder and sometimes trailing along his chest.

Once the older students decided to have their own movie night. Kurt was curled up comfortably next to Ororo, a bowl of kettle corn in his lap, when suddenly, Warren marched in and forcibly inserted himself between the two, causing Kurt to spill half of his kettle corn as he was jostled by wings and muscles and _Warren being a nuisance in general_. But there was no time to find somewhere else to sit, what with the movie about to start, and so Kurt was forced to remain firmly wedged between a gorgeous bother and the arm of the couch for the film’s entirety.

Later, Kurt thought long and hard about Warren’s motivations that night, and could only come to the conclusion that Warren was somehow upset with him and wished to separate Kurt from his friends, perhaps as punishment for Kurt burning his wings in the first place. Yes, that made sense. Warren was upset with him. It explained the constant annoyance and total disregard for personal space. But then why the cleaning of the spilled cereal? And the apology?

Kurt was confused. And a little sad. And frustrated. And _frustrated_ , because God made him blue, not _blind_.

 

* * *

 

A month and a half into Warren’s shockingly-fruitless endeavors, Alex Summers decided he had had _enough_. It was time to end this nonsense that was honestly painful to watch, if only because the whole situation hit a little too close to home. _Some_ one had to be an adult around here, because the professor was too busy making eyes at Erik, Erik was too busy manfully pining away in self-imposed emotional isolation, Hank was too busy being a nerd, Raven was too busy being a hard-ass, and Peter was too busy acting ten years younger than his age. If not Alex, then _who_. _Who_ would guide these sad, emotionally-illiterate adolescents out of their sad, emotionally-illiterate courtship dances?

It wasn't surprising, really, given that their parental figures were two trainwrecks who had been dancing around each other for the last twenty years and counting, but there was hope yet for the youths, and it fell to Alex to uphold that vaunted title of Actual Adult.

“Hey, Warren. You and I need to have a talk. About what? About your sad, Neanderthalic attempts at winning Kurt’s affections. Don't look at me like that, young man. I know exactly where you're coming from. Allow me now to impart my wisdom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr at  snarling-through-our-smiles!!


	3. Interestingly enough, all-boys boarding schools teach you nothing about flirting with boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex parents and engineers plot devices. Jean joins the Brotherhood. Kurt could cry with frustration. Kurt wants an adult. Warren words. Warren words poorly. Warren thinks that wooing your crush is the same as talking to a bunch of rich frat boys.

“So.”

 

Warren sat in disgruntled silence as Summers gazed at him through narrowed eyes over steepled fingers.  He chose to not say anything, instead using his surly taciturnity as a mask for his deep and utter bewilderment.

 

“ _So_ ,” Summers repeated, leaning in even closer to Warren, who recoiled slightly in alarm.  “You’re in love with the Wagner boy.  And you, realizing your complete fucking inability to woo said object of your affections, have come to seek me out for my guidom and wisdance.”

 

His _what_.  “I didn’t fucking ‘ _seek you out_ ’, you just _dragged_ -”

 

“Shhh,” Summers shushed, pressing a finger against Warren’s lips like _what_ the _fuck_ .  “I said what I meant to say.”   _How did he know what I was..._ “And sure, you didn’t _actually_ come seek me out, but your desperate failures called to me like a beacon in the night.”

 

Warren would’ve sputtered if he was given to such blatant, undignified expressions of emotion.  How _dare_ Summers label Warren’s efforts as “desperate failures.”  They were  _not_.  He would have Summers know that he had gotten Kurt to blush and stutter _twice_ in the past week.   _T_ _wice_.      

 

And he  _did_ let Summers know, in as many words.

 

Summers snorted.  Fucking prick.

 

“Trust me, kid.  I’ve been down that path.  You and me, we’re not that unlike each other, you know.”  Oh _good_.  Summers was trying to be _relatable_.  Because no second-rate boarding school guidance counselor had tried _that_ one before.  “Look, we’re both strapping young blondes with faces reminiscent of Greek youths that Apollo himself would go gay for in love with blue nerds who we _know_ are too good for us.  And you know what?  It’s _because_ they’re too good for us that showing off and being a dick in general won’t work on them.  You have to use your _words_.  They _love_ that shit.”

 

Warren stared blankly at Summers.  His _what?_

 

“My _what?_ ”

 

Summers chuckled.  How dare he.  What on earth was so funny.  Was he being _mocked?_

 

“Your _words_ , kid.  The sounds you make with your mouth that let other people understand how you, I don’t know, _feel_ about them?”

 

“...what do my ‘words’ have anything to do with Kurt?”

 

Summers sighed.  The fuck was he sighing about?   _He_ was the one being frustrating right now.   _Words_.  Ha.  Like that was gonna work on Kurt.  Yeah fucking _right_.  Kurt was too lovely a being to be wooed by mere _words_.  Kurt required _grand displays of physical and aesthetic prowess_.  Kurt needed to be able to see why Warren would prove to be a mate superior to all others.  Words couldn’t do that.  Words were for nerds.  Words were for the _weak_.     

 

“If you don’t tell Kurt how you feel about him,” Summers explained slowly, like he was talking to a _child_ , the _nerve_ , “how is he supposed to know that you like him?” 

 

“He _blushed_ ,” Warren repeated, grumbling.  As much as he wanted to deny it, Warren could see the truth in Summers’s words.  It had been upwards of a month, and Kurt had yet to clutch the front of Warren’s shirt and breathlessly demand to be taken in a manly fashion or swoon into Warren’s arms and breathlessly demand to be taken in a manly fashion or, honestly, breathlessly demand to be taken in a manly fashion with any manner of overture at all.

 

Summers smirked as he patted Warren’s shoulder patronizingly.  “Use your words like a big kid, Warren.”

 

* * *

 

Jean was really beginning to reconsider her opinion of Magneto.  No, _Mr. Lehnsherr_.  When one’s first encounter with a man is on a battlefield in the middle of an impending apocalypse and he’s fighting on the side of _megalomaniacal evil_ , one’s first impressions of said man would reasonably be somewhat disfavorable, to say the least.  Add to that a good ten years or so of watching one’s beloved mentor and guardian sighing and gazing wistfully into the near distance whenever Magneto’s ( _Erik Lehnhsherr’s_ ) name was mentioned and overhearing a dozen conflicting, lovelorn mental projections further coloured one’s opinions somewhat.

 

Nonetheless, Mr. Lehnsherr was currently proving to be a godsend.  A _godsend_.  For a variety of reasons, actually, not the least of which was the fact that his helmet was often found to be perched upon Jean’s head, courtesy of the man himself.  

 

See, Mr. Lehnsherr had found her curled up under the covers in her room, attempting to hide from Warren’s latest onslaught of pornographic stream-of-consciousness projections involving himself and Kurt.  (Poor, _poor,_ Kurt.)  After hearing her slightly-hysterical explanation, Mr. Lehnsherr had merely muttered, “Stay here,” in a soft baritone before leaving her room, only to return minutes later with his infamous helmet in his hands.  

 

“This might help,” he said, shoving the helmet into her lap before stepping back somewhat hesitantly.  If Jean was given to openly gawping, she would have gawped.  Here stood Magneto the great and terrible, in the room of a teenage girl, awkwardly wringing his hands after handing her one of his most important possessions.  Looking _awkward_.  Not fearful, which she would’ve at least understood, given her little display in Cairo.  No, he was just standing there, looking completely and utterly at a loss with what to do with himself, and his discomfort was obviously growing with every stretching moment of silence.

 

“Um.  Thank you,” Jean tried, unsure of how to properly respond to the world’s most notorious terrorist ( _former_ terrorist, she reminded herself) letting her borrow one of the major hallmarks of his personal effects.

 

Erik nodded stiffly.  “You’re welcome.  Just...return it to me at the end of each day.”

 

Jean’s eyes widened.  Was he really loaning her his helmet in perpetuity?  Apparently so.  The world never ceased to amaze.

 

“Okay.”

 

Erik nodded again before power-walking out of her room in a way that could only be described as _fleeing_.

 

Sliding on the helmet was a uniquely blissful experience.  It felt like turning off a radio that had only been playing static.  She didn’t remember it being this quiet since her powers kicked in, and that had been more than ten years ago.  Jean got a lot of funny looks for the rest of the day, more than the usual amount, and she guessed it _was_ kind of weird, her walking around the place with Magneto’s slightly-overlarge helmet on her head, but it was all so wonderfully quiet, she didn’t care.  

 

It _was_ kind of funny when the professor saw her, though.  His eyes widened almost comically, his mouth gaped like a fish having a stroke, and she could’ve _sworn_ that there was a blood vessel throbbing near his temple.  When he finally collected himself, it was as though he collected himself for one purpose and one purpose only.

 

“ _ERIKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!_ ”

 

Mr. Lehnsherr appeared moments later, looking supremely unconcerned with the professor’s apoplectic fit of rage.  

 

“Yes?”  Dear God, the man sounded _bored_.  Jean internally applauded his composure in the face of such wrath.

 

The professor pointed one shaking finger at Jean’s head.  “Ex _plain yourself!!_ ”

 

Mr. Lehnsherr quirked an eyebrow.

 

“I lent her my helmet.  She’s wearing my helmet.  It’s all quite simple, really.”

  
  
“You...you lent...” the professor spluttered.  He looked dangerously on the edge of actually having a stroke.  “ _What did I say about trying to recruit the children to your terrorist causes._ ”

 

Mr. Lehnsherr chuckled.  He _chuckled_.  Here the professor was, on the verge of having some sort of aneurysm and he was _chuckling_.  Jean was in awe.

 

“I’ve done no such thing.  I only lent Miss Grey my helmet because the poor girl was being forced to endure the frankly-traumatizing projections of one Mr. Worthington the Third.”

 

“The...the what?  Jean?”  The professor was clearly bewildered.

 

“It’s true, Professor,” Jean chirped.  “Warren has the worst projections.  Totally gross.  Absolutely disgusting.”  It was so much easier to talk about them when one was no longer subject to actually seeing them in Technicolor detail.

 

“Projections about _what?_ ”

 

“Having sex with Kurt.”

 

The professor almost fell out of his chair.

 

“You see, old friend, why it was necessary to provide Miss Grey with a means of reprieve.”

 

The professor frowned and scrunched his eyebrows together.

 

“Jean, have you worked on your mental blocks like we talked about?  Because I’m sure that if you tried, you could - _AUGH!_ ”

 

It was at that serendipitous moment that one of Warren’s projections managed to blow the professor’s not-inconsiderably-powerful mental blocks to smithereens, causing him to double over in his wheelchair and clutch at his temples while Jean continued smiling serenely and superiorly.  

 

“You were saying, professor?”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Use your words, Warren.  You can do this.  You can totally fucking do this.  If fucking_ Summers _can do it, you can too._

 

Warren lurked in the hallway, psyching himself up.  It wasn’t like he was _nervous_ or anything.  Nervousness was for lesser beings.  For beings not possessing of his impressive bone structure.  He most certainly did not fight the urge to bolt into the nearest room when he spotted Kurt walking towards him from the other end of the hall.  He could _so_ do this.  Somehow he had managed to dredge up from the depths of his memory the vague impression of having engaged in banter with a few of the less-brain-murderingly-dull boys during his boarding school days.  That’s all he needed to do with Kurt.  Engage in easy banter.  The shared laughter would soon lead to Kurt being utterly charmed by Warren’s wit as _well_ as his physique and it would only be a matter of time before Kurt was just as enamoured of Warren as Warren was of him.

 

“ _Hallo_ , Warren!” Kurt called out, beaming widely as he did so.  Something lurched just under Warren’s sternum.  Kurt’s smile was so arrestingly pure and dazzling and how _dare_ he.  Who gave him the right, really, to be so enchantingly bright.  Mentally, Warren shook himself and collected his wits about him.

 

“Hey, Kurt.  Um.  Nice jacket,” Warren said, jerking his chin at said jacket.   _You’re so stupid,_ Warren berated himself internally.   _Nice jacket.  He wears that jacket all the damn time._

 

Kurt’s smile got brighter.  Warren didn’t know that that was physically possible but then here they were.

 

“ _Ja?_  You really think so?”

 

Warren grinned.  “Yeah, where’d you get it?  Freddie Mercury’s costume reject pile?”  

 

 _Nailed it_.

 

The confused, slightly-hurt look on Kurt’s face would quickly fade as he realized the humorously-intentioned nature of Warren’s jab.  There would be mutual laughter on both their parts and Kurt would proceed to say something equally insulting about _Warren’s_ jacket, all in good fun, of course.  This would open the course to the easy banter that Warren had been striving to achieve in the first place.

 

Warren had, of course, neglected to account for Kurt’s poor grasp on the subtleties of sarcasm when presented in his non-native language and devoid of the usual inflections that would otherwise indicate obvious sarcasm.  As was such, the confused, slightly-hurt look on Kurt’s face did _not_ fade and there was _no_ mutual laughter and Kurt did _not_ proceed to say something equally insulting about Warren’s jacket.  Instead, there was an increasingly-awkward silence as Warren waited expectantly for Kurt to understand the whole point of his endeavor and Kurt struggled to understand how someone could be such an _ass_.  

 

Several moments passed before the hurt look on Kurt’s face morphed into indignant, offended fury.  He stormed past Warren, leaving the latter to stand all alone in the hall, utterly flabbergasted.  How had his well-laid plans failed so spectacularly.   _How_.

 

* * *

 

So maybe that first attempt didn’t go so well.  No matter.  Warren would simply try again.  After all, his first attempt at wooing Kurt by strategically positioning himself in the window also failed spectacularly, but subsequent attempts involving shirtlessness were smashing successes, if the copious blushing was anything to go by.  Following that line of logic, all Warren needed to do was amp up his teasing.  That way, Kurt would recognize what Warren was trying to do and respond in kind.  Thus would a path for easy and lighthearted conversation be cleared, during which Kurt would fall for Warren’s sharp wit and bad-boy charm.  Their talk would eventually turn to more heartfelt matters, and as they discussed their dreams and thoughts on the state of their world, their innermost feelings would occasionally and accidentally be revealed or implied, leading to significant, loaded pauses as they gazed deeply into each others’ eyes, each unwilling to be the one to break the tender, tenuous, heavy fragility of the moment at hand.  Finally, there would be a time when one of them would accidentally let slip implications of their feelings for the other person, at which point the loaded pauses would be shattered by a mutual rush of youthful passion, culminating in Warren doing every awful, graphic thing he ever fantasized about doing to Kurt.

 

Warren Worthington III was a hopeless romantic, true, but he was also a teenage male.  A teenage male with _needs_.

 

So began his masterful attempts at opening a channel of communication:

 

“Hey, Kurt!  You get lost trying to find your way back to Smurf Village?”

 

“Hey.  Hey, Kurt.  Are you _reading_ again??  Stop being such a _nerd_.  Keep that up and you’ll lose all your hair like the Professor.”

 

“Nice hair, Kurt.  You _do_ know the Ziggy Stardust Tour ended ten years ago though, right?”

 

“You sure you’re not part-Vulcan, Kurt?  I mean, look at your hands.  They’re practically _designed_ for signing, ‘Live long and prosper,’.”

 

Somewhere in the distance, Alex Summers slammed his head repeatedly into a wall.

 

* * *

 

“I do not know what he _wants_ ,” Kurt wailed as he flopped down dramatically on Jean’s bed.

 

Jean blinked at him owlishly from under her helmet.  Kurt didn’t know why Jean had suddenly taken to wearing Herr Lehnsherr’s helmet, but he thought it best not to ask.  Asking too many questions regarding Herr Lehnsherr never seemed to be a good idea.

 

“What _who_ wants?” Jubilee asked from her place on the floor, where she was currently doing something that she called “yoga” but honestly just looked like a series of painful albeit graceful contortions.

 

“Warren!  I do not understand him.  He has been acting so strangely these past months.”

 

Ororo snorted.  “When is he _not_ acting strangely?”

 

Kurt considered this.  This was not untrue.

 

“More strangely than usual, then.  Has no one noticed him...what is the word in English, _posieren_ , um...”

 

“Posing?”  Ororo prompted.

 

“Ah, yes.  Posing.”  Bless Ororo and her linguistic faculties.  “Has no one noticed him... _posing?_ ”  

 

Now it was Jean’s turn to snort.  “More like posturing.”

 

Kurt’s head tilted to one side in confusion.  Also, why did the girls seem to be utterly unsurprised by Warren’s behavior?

  
  
“Posturing?”

 

“Showing off,” Jean clarified.

 

“...what?”  Warren was showing off?  “Why would he be showing off?”

 

The girls exchanged _looks_ .  Kurt knew this _look_.  It was the look the girls shared when they knew something that other people did not.   _What did they know that he did not._

 

Jean removed her helmet as Jubilee turned to him.  “Kurt?  What do you think of Warren?”

 

Oh no he had been discovered.  Oh no.  It was time to lie, and lie _well_.

 

“Umm...I think...that he is a good fighter.  That is all.”  Yes.  That was all.  Judging from the _look_ the girls exchanged earlier, it would be wise to not alert them to his true feelings, namely the feelings that he felt like he would surely be going to hell for should they ever be vocalized.  Like the feeling that he so very much wanted to know what Warren’s arms felt like wrapped around him, or the feeling that he maybe also very much wanted to know how Warren’s muscles would feel under his hands, or various other _deeply-buried feelings_ involving _sweat_ and _skin_ and _sheets_ and _beds_ and _walls??_ and _floors_ and -

 

“ _Kurt!!!_ ”  Jean screeched, hastily jamming the helmet back on her head.  

 

 _Gott verdammt_.  Kurt forgot that Jean could read projections, and he must have been projecting very loudly indeed.  Not that he _meant_ to, of course.  It was simply very hard to think about Warren and not be swept up by his sheer gloriousness.  But oh no, the girls were exchanging more _looks_ , and they were _grinning conspiratorially_ .  They were sporting _identical conspiratorial grins_.  Herr Lehnsherr would have been proud of how terrifying their grins were, only they weren’t so much shark-like as they were cat-got-the-canary-like.  Or cat-about-to-get-the-canary-like.  

 

“Kurrrt?” Jubilee asked again, only this time in a sing-songy lilt that had Kurt wishing he could just _bamf_ away from this nest of well-intentioned (???) vipers.  “Do you _like_ Warren?”

 

Kurt resolved to say nothing, _nothing,_ only _something_ must have given him away because suddenly, there was _cooing_ and _hugging_ and _hair-petting_.  It was the blush, wasn't it?   _Damn_ his blushing tendencies.

 

“Poor sweetheart,” Ororo crooned with a grin half-hidden in her voice.  “You have no idea at all, do you?”

 

Kurt was instantly suspicious, his initial suspicions of somehow being out of the loop confirmed.  

 

“What is it I do not know?”  

 

The girls paused in their fussing over Kurt _looked_ at each other again before resuming their frankly-alarming behavior.

 

“Shhh,” Jean soothed.  Or rather, tried to soothe.  Kurt was buying none of this.  “Don’t worry.”  Kurt worried more.  “We’ll fix this.”   _Would they???_  And _what were they fixing???_

 

Kurt panicked.  Kurt panicked deeply.  Kurt panicked deeply as he recognized that resistance was futile and allowed three super-powered girls possessing of surprising levels of physical strength to treat him like an overlarge cat.

 

* * *

 

Tensions and tempers were running high in the Xavier mansion.  Warren was brooding more intensely than usual because in all nineteen years of his existence, he had never learned how to not talk to someone like a little shit, especially not to the object of his affections.  Kurt was gazing wistfully out of windows more intensely than usual because in all sixteen years of his existence, he had never learned that sometimes, people with the emotional maturities of particularly-witty turnips sometimes talked like little shits to the objects of their affections.  The girls were actually no more smug than usual, because although they knew something that other people did not, this was not outside of the norm.  They _always_ knew something that other people did not.  For example, they totally knew that Mystique sometimes participated in threesomes with Alex and Dr. McCoy out of the bittersweet knowledge that the three of them were all that were left, and it was both heart-wrenchingly adorable and really, _really_ tragic.  

 

It was at this time that a convenient deus ex machina appeared in the form of a large poster tacked to the bulletin board in a fashion that made it impossible to escape anyone’s notice, particularly not those of our young protagonists.  “First Annual Xavier Institute Prom,” it read in giant military stencil font on bright red butcher paper.

 

(“You can’t use _military stencils_ on a _prom announcement_ ,” Hank had hissed, scandalized.  “You don’t get it, babe,” Alex replied as he continued stencilling on the letters with near-manic determination.  “If it’s in that fancy cursive shit, the Worthington kid won’t take a second look at it.  He’s possibly more stupid than I am.  We need to make this easy on him.  I am _sick_ and _tired_ of watching them shoot longing glances at each other when they think the other one isn’t looking, and also someone needs to stop that kid before he manages to accidentally bully Kurt into hating him forever, and if you say _anything_ about Warren reminding you of me when I was nineteen, Hank, you’ll be sleeping in the lab for a week, and that is a _promise_.”)

 

Warren stood a little distance behind the gaggle of teens currently clamoring over the announcement, not wanting to seem _interested_ or _excited_ , because he was too cool for such adolescent shenanigans.  Clearly.   _A prom..._

 

“You should ask Kurt to prom.”

 

Warren’s head snapped to the previously-unoccupied space to his left that was now occupied by a particular silver-haired mutant.

 

“What?”

 

Maximoff jerked his chin towards the giant poster.

 

“Prom.  You should ask Kurt to it.  Don’t you have a thing for him?”

 

“...nO.”

 

Maximoff smirked.  “So you won’t mind if _I_ ask him, then?”

  
Warren could feel a deep-seated rage surging through his bones.  How _dare_ Maximoff attempt to lay claim to Kurt, who was _way too good for that gray-haired idiot_.  How. Fucking.   _Dare._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. First there was writer's block. Then there was school. Then there was more writer's block. I wrote this during a bunch of lectures on animal physiology and organic chemistry. I hope this satisfies you all. In the meantime, come find me at  snarling-through-our-smiles!!


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